


To Live is to Fight

by Anonymous



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Kink Meme, M/M, Mild Gore, Partial Blinding, Prompt Fill, angst followed by fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: AU in which Richelieu is still alive in s2 and Rochefort takes revenge for Richelieu seemingly destroying his life by hurting what Richelieu loves.Originally posted as a fill for a prompt on the anon meme on dreamwidth:Original Prompt: Instead of Rochefort attacking Anne, what if he attacks Treville?    Going AU for series two with The Cardinal still being alive and royally pissed off that Rochefort got out of Spain where he'd hoped the man would rot for the rest of his life, and very aware of how dangerously insane Rochefort is. Rochefort discovers that it was Richelieu who not only denied him the ransom for his release from Spain, but actually arranged for his imprisonment!, and is out for revenge. Instead of going after Richelieu directly, he goes for what Richelieu loves, Treville. He attacks Treville, and has him pinned down on the floor trying to rape him, when Richelieu walks in on them...... Bonus for Treville slashing Rocheforts eye out like Anne did (first time I`ve been happy to see eye gauging, usually it grosses me out, this time?, I like it!!!)





	

Captain Treville was sitting within his private chambers, a glass of brandy within easy reach. His unlaced shirt partly revealed the bandages underneath that covered the gunshot wound he had suffered so recently. Treville still felt it ache from time to time, but tonight the warmth of the brandy and the papers on his desk distracted him. He intended to at least finish one more letter before his guest arrived.

A knock finally tore his attention away from his paperwork.

 _Armand's early_ , he thought. 

But the person who poked his head through the door was not the cardinal, but a musketeer. 

"What is it, Garnier? I thought I had dismissed you for the night?"

On the rare occasions that Richelieu dropped by, Treville preferred to have as few musketeers around his apartments as possible. 

"I was just about to follow your orders, Captain. Then Councillor Rochefort arrived – he says he wants to see you."

Treville noticed that the musketeer used the same disdainful tone when pronouncing the comte's new title that Treville himself employed when talking about the man. He would have to address that. No doubt use of it would have spread to other musketeers as well. But he would not do it tonight. 

And maybe, very soon, there would no longer be a reason to remind them to treat the count with any respect at all. With the recent information unearthed by Milady it would not be long until the cardinal could prove Rochefort's involvement in the very murder that had vacated the seat on the council the count had usurped. 

But tonight he would still have to suffer his presence.

Treville acknowledged Garnier's statement with a nod. "Send him in. Goodnight, Garnier."

"Goodnight, sir."

Steeling himself by taking another sip from his glass, Treville prepared to meet the insufferable count. Instead of hunting for his jacket or coat to ensure Rochefort would find him formally attired he took the time to lock away the bottle. Just in case Rochefort felt tempted to ask for a swig. It was one of his good brandies after all. 

He had barely turned the key in the lock of the cabinet that he kept his more valued spirits in, when Rochefort strode in, barely waiting for a response after knocking. 

Treville made certain to let his displeasure be known through a look. 

"Councillor," he said curtly. 

Rochefort did not waste time on even that much courtesy. 

"It's so lonely outside, Captain," he said. "Usually your court is swarming with musketeers."

"I've no idea what business that is of yours." There was more than one reason for it, one of which even tangentially concerned Rochefort. "What do you want?"

"The queen. Where is she?"

_That reason._

"Perhaps you'd care to be a little bit more precise with your request? Keeping track of Her Majesty's every step does not fall within my field of responsibilities." He sat down on one of the two chairs in the room without bothering to offer the other, which was quite occupied by his sword belt and pistol. He made sure to catch Rochefort's eye as he continued. "If anything it seems you've recently made it _your_ responsibility."

Rochefort did not react to the blatant bait. 

"I believe you know very well what I'm talking about." His voice remained calm. Not so quiet as to be considered threatening, not so loud as to reveal rage. Despite his lack of manners at least his tone was perfectly civil. "She was escorted out of the palace by your musketeers."

Treville attempted an open, obliging expression. 

"Yes, I believe her physician recommend her taking the waters."

Rochefort's face darkened. "Her physician recommended this? Now?"

"This morning. Did Her Majesty not tell you herself?."

"Her physician," Rochefort mumbled under his breath, his voice thinning. Then, forceful again, "Where did she go?"

"If Her Majesty didn't tell you we must assume she didn't want you to know." 

As they held each other's gaze Rochefort's light blue eyes turned cold. Treville felt tempted to call Garnier back and have him get rid of this honoured guest. 

"If that's all you came here for," Treville said, leaning back into his chair pretending not to have a care, "I must ask you to leave. I'm busy."

Rochefort took one look at the glass and Treville's half-dressed state and snapped, "busy debauching yourself!"

Treville stood up, his eyes narrowed. "Leave. Now." 

As if on cue Rochefort's whole demeanour switched. His posture relaxed, and the sneer vanished from his face to be replaced by an apologetic look. 

"Begging your forgiveness, Captain. We appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot," he said sweetly. 

"Don't make me repeat myself, Councillor." 

Rochefort actually smiled. 

"It's just in that position I come to you, Treville. Due to the king's—" he paused, "—indisposition, it is imperative for the council to know where Her Majesty removed herself to." 

Treville did not bother smiling. "In that case, perhaps you should ask one of your fellow councillors. Perhaps the cardinal." 

Rochefort exhaled noisily, the polite smile still stuck on his face, resembling ever more a grimace. "You two think you're so clever," he said in a tone that should have been accompanied by an eyeroll. 

Treville had to stop himself from flinching when Rochefort took a step closer and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. 

"But we'll see who laughs once Louis learns what tricks you're playing on his favourite."

Treville snorted. "Richelieu has twice as much favour to lose than you've earned." 

"He has, hasn't he? But he is using it up for the both of you."

Treville slapped Rochefort's hand away when he had the audacity to squeeze. 

"You should leave. Now."

"No false modesty, I know exactly what you are." Rochefort lifted the slapped hand to adjust his glove, taking his eyes off Treville for a second as if to underline the sudden disdain in his voice. "But you're not one to worry. He's protecting you as long as you spread your legs for him."

Treville threw a punch that Rochefort must have been expecting. He ducked in time and moved forward to crash into Treville with all his weight. The captain grunted in surprise, forced to stumble backward, and tripped over the chair that he had occupied a minute before. Rochefort left him no time to recover his balance. 

"You're attempting to take everything from me," the comte hissed between blows, the next of which caught Treville on the jaw. Treville could taste blood as he went down. He his hit head on the seat of the toppled chair and was left groggy for precious seconds. He aimed his own punch at Rochefort's crotch but the comte sidestepped his wild punch easily. 

Rochefort grabbed him by the neck.

"You, and your pimp." He bared his teeth. "No longer."

An elbow to the knee made Rochefort release his grip and stumble against the table and the glass of brandy met the floor in splintering crash. 

Treville immediately dove for his weapons atop of the other chair, but Rochefort made it fly with a kick. Sword, pistol, dagger and all clattered to the floor, not even a foot out of Treville's reach. But it was enough. 

"You shouldn't have tried to keep Anne from me!"

Giving up on the weapons, Treville did not even have time to turn all the way around before Rochefort was on him again. A kick aimed at his ribs forced Rochefort to jump to the side. 

"Whore!" he spat. 

Treville got back to his feet, the dizzy feeling in his head turning into nausea as he did so. 

Rochefort threw a chair at him, and in the second it took for Treville to take a step to avoid it Rochefort charged. Treville let him run into his fist, but it did not stop the comte. They both hit the wall behind him, and Treville felt the back of his head slam into the window frame. His legs buckled beneath him, only for a second, but it was enough for Rochefort to regain his senses and grab hold of him. 

"Richelieu thinks he can take everything from me." Rochefort sounded as if he was pressing every word through clenched teeth.

With a roar he shoved Treville away from the wall, into the room, sent him tumbling to his knees. The musketeer dropped and rolled instead of trying to get up again immediately. It allowed him to narrowly avoid Rochefort taking hold of him again, but Rochefort pursued him with the fury of a rabid cat. 

The next punch hit Treville under the left shoulder blade, right on the spot where the pistol ball had torn into him. He choked on a sob. 

Rochefort hit the same spot again, sending Treville to all fours.

"My freedom," he continued his ranting. "My honour." He punctuated his point with a kick to Treville's stomach. "My love!"

Treville gasped as he fell onto the floor, winded. This could not be how it ended. Not like this. He tried to swallow and again tasted blood. Either from where he'd bitten his cheek, or maybe from a cut lip, it did not matter. He would not let it end like this. Armand was on his way, and he would not arrive to find his lover's corpse.

"He takes! And he takes!"

Treville rolled onto his side awaiting the next kick.

"And he takes!"

The kick came, connected. Treville grunted but held on to Rochefort's leg, unbalancing him. 

Rochefort cursed as he fell, but managed to catch himself on the table. The better leverage to kick himself free. Treville hissed in pain as Rochefort's boot strafed his unprotected collarbone. 

By now he regretted not having dressed up for the occasion. 

"Not anymore." 

Rochefort pulled himself up with a groan and launched himself at his victim, pushing Treville back onto the floor on his stomach, one of the musketeer's arms trapped underneath. He dug his elbow into the sutures on his back, making Treville shout in pain. 

"How is your wound, Captain?" Rochefort laughed. "Does it hurt? What a bloody amateur assassin, can't even slaughter the cardinal's bitch." 

Treville responded with a growl, trying to push himself off the floor. But Rochefort sat atop of him, pressing a knee into his back. 

"It's over now." Rochefort's voice shook. It would take him a moment to catch his breath, but with all his weight on top of Treville Rochefort's breathlessness did not help the musketeer much. He tried to buck him off, but he could barely move. Rochefort was too heavy. The Comte pressed a gloved hand to the nape of Treville's neck, keeping him pinned. Treville tried to grab it with his free hand, but found that the pain in his shoulders would not let him reach there. 

He shook with the humiliation of it. But he was not without hope. Someone must have heard the fight. _Someone_. 

Rochefort stroked his thumb across his neck, across his ear. The touch of the leather was oddly intimate. It was similar enough to the feeling of Richelieu's gloves on his skin to make Treville feel sick.

He had to open his mouth to take a sharp breath. Breathing through the nose was becoming ever harder due to blood trickling from it. "Don't." He gritted his teeth in rage at the weakness in his voice. 

Rochefort snorted, amused. "Good enough for his Eminence, but not good enough for me?" 

Treville felt Rochefort's weight shift, but not enough to allow him to move his back or legs, and he heard the Comte unbuckle his belt. 

It was hard to talk with the headache and Rochefort pressing the side of his face against the floor, but Treville spat out, "You bastard!"

The comte continued his mockery of a caress.

"Your dear Cardinal wants me to live like an animal. Without honour, without love." He tightened his grip on Treville's neck and fondled his arse with the other. Treville flinched. Pain shot through his shoulder and back as he tried to get up again, making him groan, but Rochefort didn't budge.

"I'll show him what an animal can do." 

Treville growled, unable to contain his rage. He coul hear the excitement in the comte's voice.

"So savage." A chuckle. Treville held his breath as he felt the cool metal of a blade press against his throat. "Perhaps he'll even thank me for breaking you in properly." 

Rochefort shifted his weight again, most likely to pull down his trousers, and the grip on Treville's loosened slightly. Treville took the chance to kick out and buck his hips in the vain hopes of unseating his assailant or at least freeing his other arm. He only managed to increase the awkward angle on his trapped limb to the point of pain, and Rochefort dug his fingers into his neck, making Treville gasp.

"Are you so eager for my cock?" He did not laugh this time. He sounded calm. "Don't worry, _I'm_ eager for you. You won't have to wait long."

Treville could feel something at his hip. He could not see it, but he could guess that Rochefort cut had through his belt. That he would cut through his trousers to get them off, or at least far enough. He groaned, his eyes scanning the room, looking for where his own dagger had fallen. But the only objects in his line of sight were the toppled chair and the ruins of the glass. His weapons were hopelessly out of reach, and he doubted he still had the coordination and strength to fight off Rochefort without them. The sutures on his back hurt. His head hurt. His arm hurt. His ribs hurt.

"Let's move a bit, so we can get these off." 

Rochefort shifted his weight again, one hand still pressing down on Treville's neck, rubbing the side of his face against the rough floorboards.

Then the door burst open.

"Jean!" Armand appeared in the doorframe, standing still, eyes wide, as he attempted to comprehend the scene before him.

Treville could hardly believe his luck, but the surprise did not stop his instincts from working: From the corner of his eye he could see that Rochefort was staring at Armand. He looked frozen in shock – distracted. 

"Get away from him!" 

Treville could not allow himself to focus on the panic that had crept into his lover's voice. He decided to help Rochefort in obliging the cardinal's wishes. With an effort that took all his strength, Treville made use of Rochefort's new position to push back and roll onto his back. Throwing out his arm, he reached for the only weapon he could reach.

Unbalanced, Rochefort had to catch himself with his hands on the floor, still half atop Treville. But one moment of distraction was enough. 

Rochefort had regained his balance before Richelieu had taken a step towards them, but Treville's fingers had already closed around the edges of the thin shard of glass that cut into his flesh. As Rochefort towered over him, his blade raised, Treville caught the arm holding the dagger with one hand and lashed out with the other. Rochefort attempted to evade the strike, but his effort was too late, too little. He could not bend far enough this time. Treville drove the needle point of the sharp glass into the comte's left eye. 

His assailant recoiled, spine curved, howling with pain. 

It was easy for Treville to finally shove him off. He moved away from Rochefort as if he spat venom instead of curses, giving him a final kick for good measure, and made a dash for his weapons. But when he reached them, his limbs refused to obey him. His trembling legs forced him to sit down against the wall, breathing shakily. Armand was with him in a flash. 

It was no longer just Treville's shoulder but his entire back that was awash with pain, and the cuts on his hand burned at the slightest movement.

Treville was aware of Armand putting his thin frame between him and Rochefort, but he had eyes only for the other man getting shakily onto his feet, dark gore swelling from between the fingers he pressed onto his face. The thin piece of glass stuck out between those same bone-white fingers.

The cardinal called for a guard and Rochefort stumbled straight ahead, towards the door, away from them. He was using only one hand now to stench the flow of the blood. The liquid flowed down his wrist in tiny rivulets, and ran into the inside of his sleeve. The other hand was employed in bringing his trousers in order, drawing Armand's gaze to his crotch. Treville could see the cardinal's pale eyes flash at the sight.

The musketeer felt himself tremble in rage that served little to cover the shame he felt. He remembered his weapons.

"My sword!" He made a move to raise himself up, but Armand held him down, held him close. 

"No, no. Someone else is going to take care of that. Guards! Guards!" 

Treville shoved him away before he could remind himself that it was Armand holding him.

Armand cursed in frustration before calling for help again. It was unclear whether he directed his displeasure at the still invisible guards or someone else, as Treville, again, moved to rise to feet. 

This time Armand let him, straightening as well, just in time to support him as he swayed, still dizzy. 

"Sit down, you fool," Armand said, and while Treville felt something being wrapped around his injured hand that the glass had cut into he was unsure which was more unsteady: The ground, or Armand's voice.

Outside Treville heard someone call for a doctor. His mind refused to settle down enough for him to identify whose voice it was. He only knew it wasn't Rochefort.

Realising that musketeers had to be outside, Treville immediately gave in to his lover's demands. Armand righted one of the chairs and made him sit. Crouching over him, he wiped at Treville's face with a silken handkerchief – no doubt to clean off the blood – until Treville grabbed his hands. The edges of the handkerchief that covered the cuts began to darken.

"Jean, you're bleeding." 

_As if he didn't know!_ Treville pulled him close, wrapping an arm around his waist, leaned his head against his side.

"Not now," he sighed. 

Armand's fingers ghosted through his short hair for a moment. He seemed incapable of stopping himself from touching him. 

Treville took a deep breath, feeling the softness of Armand's robes against his forehead, breathing in his familiar scent. 

"Not now," he repeated. 

Armand's hand stroked his hair one more time, somehow missing the sore spot where Treville had hit his head, before he disentangled himself from the musketeer's one-armed embrace. He drew himself up to his full stature and strode towards the door. When Treville looked up he saw were musketeers standing in the doorframe. 

Athos was among them. He alone had remained behind while his inevitable friends accompanied the queen. He looked at the scene that presented itself before him with what Treville knew was a carefully kept neutral mien. 

Treville was glad of it.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded the cardinal in all his regal glory. "The comte attacked your captain. Arrest him!"

While the musketeers were occupied with being shouted at, Treville focused on tightening the cloth wrapped around his hand.

"Captain?" Athos threw him a glance that Treville found hard to read in his present condition. 

"I'm fine," he lied. "Do as he says."

"Get the doctor in here", Treville heard Armand call after the musketeers. And, after a pause, "and get someone to see to Rochefort."

"You're too kind," Treville said once the door shut behind the musketeers, managing a grin. It made Armand pale. 

"I'd prefer the comte alive for punishment," the response came without amusement. The cardinal remained standing near the door, outwardly as calm and collected as when he was talking foreign dignitaries into submission. Inwardly, well… 

"Don't you?" he asked.

Treville remained silent for a moment. "He knows about us," He said, his voice steady, if low. He avoided looking at the floor, at the broken glass. He was already shoving away the rage, the shame, the fright, to regain a semblance of calm.

"He'll claim anything to save himself." Armand still hovered near the door, as if he would prefer to chase after Rochefort. But his voice was as calm as his face, on the outside. 

"Do you need anything?"

Treville nodded slowly. "Come here."

Armand resumed his position by Treville's side. Only this time he crouched next to him.

"I do have another chair you might find more comfortable," Treville joked. "With your joints."

Armand looked away, apparently too emotional to even joke, and rested his head on his lover's shoulder.

Treville flinched away. His arm and shoulder still hurt on that side, and Armand immediately pulled away. 

"I'm going to kill him," the cardinal whispered and Treville could see his porcelain façade crack as his calm expression gave way to a dark frown. Armand's eyes shot to the door. "I'm going to kill him." 

But Treville reached for him again, drawing him towards him.

"I want you here," he mumbled into Armand's robes. "If you could lean onto my other shoulder." 

Armand complied, standing to carefully crouch at Treville's other side. He had never been a very nurturing person and now it seemed he found himself at a loss for what else to do. He sat with Treville, holding his hand and Treville could feel him tremble, slightly, but noticeably. 

After a long moment spent in silence, Treville felt Armand's hand come to rest on his chest where the bandages disappeared under his unlaced shirt. Catching his eyes, Treville was taken aback by the intensity of his lover's gaze. He realised that Armand was silently asking him for permission to push away his shirt. Treville nodded.

Armand moved behind him and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. 

"There's no bleeding," he said, and Treville could feel Armand's fingers ghost over his shoulder blades. Armand's touch was soothing and Treville told himself to take deep breaths as the cardinal lightly stroked his back.

"Where else?" Armand asked.

Treville snorted lightly. "Nothing much hurt worse than my pride."

"Where?"

"Head." From the day he had first joined up he had been taught never to hide a physical injury. 

Left with nothing else to do, the cardinal raised his hand to cup Treville's uninjured cheek. He stroked carefully over the back of his lover's head as if he intended to pull him down for a kiss, but only succeeded in making Treville wince slightly when he brushed over the spot that Treville had hit against the window frame earlier.

"I'm going to kill him."

Treville felt no inclination to stop him, but still he said, "I thought you wanted him alive," with a sardonic smile that made the cut on his lower lip open and burn. 

"Alive, so I can kill him," Armand corrected. He closed his eyes for a moment. "I'll put him on a spike. On the wheel. The block's too good for him." The trembling Treville had felt in his hands, that now clutched his wrists again, had spread into Armand's voice, had transformed into a wet film over the cardinal's eyes that had immediately frozen to a look of stoic ice. 

This time it was Treville who put his hand on Armand's cheek and drew him in for a kiss. It was awkward, what with Treville only being able to breathe through one nostril, and the cut on his lip stinging. But Treville slung his arms around Richelieu's shoulders, his bandaged hand resting in Armand's curly hair as if he felt nothing but the touch of his lips. It was Richelieu who breathed shakily now. 

When they pulled apart one corner of Armand's mouth was slightly bloody. Treville immediately wiped the offending stain away. The sight made him wonder whether it had been sheer bad luck that Rochefort's ire had fallen on him, and whether the comte might have attempted the same with the cardinal if given the chance. 

He did not want to create that image in his mind. At the thought rage gathered in his stomach, like a burning, molten clot of iron. 

A knock interrupted them, and Treville could not help the feeling that Armand seemed somehow glad of it. He sprung to his feet with enviable energy, drawing himself up to his full height and taking a step towards the door before Treville had even acknowledged the knock with a gruff, barked word of "enter!"

Once again the cardinal stood in front of him, between him and the door. As if he were not still the most powerful man in France, a creature of reason standing in a room furnished for human beings, but instead a wild animal, driven by instinct to block the mouth of the cave to protect what was his. He still wore his travelling cloak, billowing black lined in scarlet. It made him look broader, more awe-inspiring than he would have without them. But Treville knew he was no fighter. He knew the body that those clothes hid, loved it, and knew of its frailties. 

If it was another Rochefort, uninjured, who returned through that door, he would not stand a chance. Neither would Treville. The captain felt the shame slither its way back into his innards, when he thought of how easily Rochefort had pushed him to the floor. Not even the fact that he had been injured was of much comfort to him. Despite the effort, he had been pinned and helpless like a fly on a mounting board, to be done with as his captor pleased.

He had to take breath and close his eyes as the door finally opened. 

It was only Dr Lemay who entered, escorted by a squad of Red Guards and as many musketeers.

After the barest exchange of words with the cardinal the doctor headed towards his patient, who greeted him with a respectful nod and a word of greeting, the steady tone of which belied the turmoil of his thoughts.

Richelieu hovered by the door and watched them, visibly uncertain whether he should stay or whether he wanted to leave, until one of the Red Guards put him out of his misery. 

"Captain Jussac ordered me to humbly remind you that the King will grant you an audience before Rochefort gets a chance to get cleaned up enough to face him."

The cardinal looked back to Treville as if asking for permission. Treville nodded, almost imperceptibly. With that Richelieu left him to the tender care of Dr Lemay, the Red Guards at his heals. No doubt he was relieved at being asked to do something he understood.

Lemay examined Treville's bruises and the bump on his head. He checked his old sutures and added new ones when he stitched up his lacerated hand. When he helped him wash the blood from his face Treville was sorry he had not allowed Armand to do it for him. As Lemay worked, he tried to talk to Treville about the Dauphin's health and a more effective method of bleeding he was hoping to try out, but with every passing moment Treville felt a strange melancholy spread and take hold of him. It must be the fire in his blood that had been sparked by the fight finally dying down, leaving him feeling cold. Leaving him to feel every cut and bruise Rochefort had left him. He looked up at the timepiece on the mantle and wondered when Armand would return.

How he wanted a drink now. Treville's eyes wandered to the broken glass on the floor. Someone would have to clean that up.

As if he knew what was happening, Dr Lemay, after bandaging his ribs and the old sutures on his back, handed him his doublet and helped him put it on. Then he went hunting for Treville's cloak. Lemay had just arranged it around Treville's shoulders and told him to take care of his stitches when the cardinal returned. 

He and Treville looked at each other in silence, while Lemay packed up his things and made to leave. There was a distant look in Armand's eyes that could best be described as apologetic.

"Did Louis leave his chambers for you?" Treville asked as soon as the door closed behind the doctor.

"No, but he was tempted to in order to see for himself that you're still alive."

Under different circumstances Treville would have been thrilled about the news, but instead he grimaced. Louis was the last person he wanted to see him beaten like this. 

"Naturally, I forbade it," Armand added. 

"The king put him under house arrest." Treville sucked in his breath approvingly. After the last few months he had doubted that Louis was even capable of punishing the comte. 

"Rochefort will petition him all night," Armand continued, lingering by the door, "but knowing Louis he will refuse to see him until at least the day after tomorrow."

What was Armand afraid of? He knew Treville had lived through too much in his long career without it having made him shy to be shattered by Rochefort. 

"Did he say anything as to why?" 

"He was furious at our spiriting the queen to safety." 

Rochefort had been too close to learning the truth about her and Aramis to allow him an opportunity to confront her before they were ready to accuse him of treason first. 

On the one hand, he had only sped along his own fate with his attack on Treville. On the other hand, by the look of Richelieu he would have preferred to dance around the count for years if necessary than have his fall begin as it had. 

"Anything else?"

"No." 

Armand gave him a challenging stare, but having started his career as a soldier of the light cavalry Treville was used to holding out against such tactics. He was not going to repeat anything else Rochefort had said to him. None of it had ever been worth giving shape through voice in the first place. It would only hurt Armand to hear it.

Uncharacteristically for him, Armand gave up. His eyes glazed over with frost once more that Treville finally decided was guilt. He licked his dry lips and as he tasted the cut on his lower lip, he wondered what he looked like to Armand. 

"It's not your fault."

Armand pressed his lips closed. He looked haughty for a second, but then the mask finally came off: 

"I put you in this position!"

"He's insane. It could have been anyone." _Really?_

"You've just been shot!"

"I know."

"Do you? Really?"

Treville was quiet for a moment. He had not accepted any of these excuses previously, but that was when his blood had still been up. Before Lemay had helped him wash and dress. Before Richelieu had returned from the palace only to look at him as though he was made of glass.

"I should never have allowed him to stay in Paris and gain a position at Court!"

"We would never have learned of Vargas' involvement then."

"I don't care!"

It was a lie. Of course Armand cared about the plans of the Spanish spymaster for the French Royal Court. But his stoicism wouldn't allow him to voice his true feelings on the matter in any other fashion.

"Nothing happened!" Treville yelled in frustration. The cardinal's nostrils flared in response, his expression unreadable, except for the obvious anger directed at … something.

"Of course something happened!" Armand turned away, rubbing his eyes. He was looking about ready to kick something.

Treville sensed the melancholy return and pulled the cloak around his shoulders tighter for a brief moment, then threw it off. He was sick of seeing Armand hover by the entrance as if Treville was someone to flee from. He stood up and walked over to him, happy and amazed that his legs obeyed him without noteworthy protest. 

They were facing each other again, standing close. Treville could not remember the last time he had seen so much concern in his lover's eye for anything other than the outcome of a political feint. 

"I'm going to be fine," Treville said with a fond smile.

Armand breathed deeply and embraced him. Treville leaned against him gratefully. 

"Stay here," he mumbled. 

They stood in silence for a moment. Treville could heard the familiar sounds of musketeers patrolling the garrison and told his body to relax. 

Armand raised one hand to Treville's neck to pull him closer and Treville shivered against him. But it was a pleasant shiver. The touch of the cardinal's scholarly hands was as silky cool and soft as ever. Treville responded by kissing Armand's jaw, his neck, every place he could reach. 

Armand pressed close. 

"I'm going to be fine," Treville repeated, starting to believe it. 

Armand breathed into his hair.

"I'm here if you're not."


End file.
